


What Little There is

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things like this are not very intimate anymore. It's as easily thrown away as a promise between nations, used as nothing more than leverage for alliances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Little There is

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ November 13, 2009. 
> 
> Just my general response to sex fics in fandom (not that I'm complaining, of course, because hurr unf!) I wanted to show that the action, in many cases, can be rather empty but in other ways be rather intimate. Hopefully I successfully show that without falling into sentimentality.

“England?” he called as he opened the door, one hand clutching his stomach. “England, I think I’m ill, I’m—”  
  
Whatever America was about to say was abruptly forgotten, however, as the opened door revealed his caretaker arching over someone in the bed, hands planted firmly on either side of the other person’s head as the person below England moaned softly. England’s hips jerked in and out several times.   
  
America stared, unsure what exactly he was looking at but knowing that it was something he wasn’t meant to see. He stifled a squeak of surprise, and of pain as his gut twisted in his chest.   
  
England heard the squeak and abruptly the similar squeaking from the bed ceased and the moans stopped. England whipped his head towards the door, eyes wide and face sweaty and flushed.   
  
“—America?” he gasped out. “What are you—?”  
  
“I’m sorry!” America cried out, stumbling backwards as the nausea proved too great and he felt bile rising in his throat. He scrambled backwards further, racing down the stairs and flinging the front door open. He tumbled out into the night, racing across the dewy grass and towards a bush, where he dropped to his knees and vomited against the roots, his body shaking.   
  
He stayed like that, heaving and clenching his eyes shut, releasing the smallest whimper of pain. He clutched his stomach, bent over into himself and sniffling as the waves of nausea and illness subsided momentarily.   
  
He heard England’s footsteps before he felt his caretaker kneel beside him, hesitantly placing a warm hand on his back. The touch was light, almost hesitant. America turned his head, peering up at England through his hair, biting his lower lip in his attempts to stifle the small whimpers that still wiggled out past his teeth.   
  
“America…” England began.   
  
“I’m sorry,” America said again, feeling the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes as he whipped his head away from England again. “I was ill and I wanted to see you and I didn’t know that—”  
  
The touch on America’s back became more present after that, constant. It rubbed along his spine in a comforting fashion that made the tension in America’s shoulders ease a bit. He sniffled.   
  
“It’s alright, lad, it’s alright,” England reassured, rubbing his back. America lifted his hand, wiping the back of his mouth and sitting up correctly with a sigh, hands clenched tightly in his lap. He peered up at England—still flushed and sweaty, his clothing thrown on in a hurry to follow America.   
  
“What were you doing?”   
  
England frowned and America wondered briefly if England would answer him. When faced with questions he didn’t wish to answer, England often changed the subject or avoided it all together. But he kept staring up at him, wishing to understand, his stomach quivering but now empty.   
  
“I thought I’d get to wait before having this talk with you,” England muttered, clearing his throat in the way that signified that he was rather uncomfortable. His shoulders tensed, he cleared his throat a few more times before finally speaking. “I was solidifying an alliance, a treaty, America.”   
  
America tilted his head to the side, his lips quirking downwards in a frown. “But that’s where you sign a piece of paper, England. You told me.”   
  
England spent a good few minutes clearing his throat and smoothing his hands over his clothing, trying to straighten them and make himself presentable, despite the fact that they were only in the front yard and it was the middle of the night.   
  
“Well, this is true. But for us, people like us I mean,” he said, indicating between himself and America with a vague wave of his hand, “Sometimes it’s necessary or desired to make the alliance stronger and this is seen as a way for us to do so. Or to make the alliance more… tangibly accepted. Who you saw in there was one of my top officers.”   
  
America thought this over. “Oh.”  
  
England looked as if he would start squirming at any moment. “Especially between countries, things like this will occur. It’s meant to connect the two countries and reaffirm the goals the two countries wish to create together.”   
  
“All countries will do that?” America asked, quietly, feeling a quiver in his stomach again. He pressed his hands against his belly, trying to suppress it. England spotted it, and his frown seemed to deepen further.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Will I have to do that?” America’s voice was quieter still as he stared up at England.   
  
England did squirm this time and looked incredibly uncomfortable with the direction his conversation was going. America kept staring at him, hoping that he would answer the questions and not try to avoid it or change the subject.   
  
But soon England chuckled, and passed a hand through America’s hair, his hand soft and gentle. “It’s something you’d have to wait until you’re older for, but it wouldn’t matter. I’d solidify all treaties made for you, since you’re mine.”   
  
The little colony thought this over more, biting his lower lip between his teeth and chewing thoughtfully.   
  
“Then… will you do it with me?” America asked him.   
  
England sputtered a moment, and then went into a frenzy of clearing his throat. “P… Perhaps when you’re older. It probably wouldn’t be necessary, though.”   
  
America’s frown deepened. “Why?”   
  
“That isn’t important now,” his caretaker told him and America knew that very soon the subject would be changed unless he grasped onto the subject tightly.   
  
And that’s just what he did. “If it isn’t necessary with me, why do you do it at all?”   
  
“Hm… mostly because it’s good for alliances in some cases. And… well…”  
  
“It’s fun?” America guessed.   
  
England coughed into his hand and didn’t protest that assessment.   
  
“Hmm…” America began. “But I won’t get to do it?”   
  
“Well,” England said, acquiring a rather diplomatic voice. “The fact is, America, that doing something like that without the intention of procreating would be frowned down upon… especially by some of your people.” He cleared his throat again. “Especially considering it was between two men.”   
  
America blinked up at him.  
  
England continued, growing continually awkward, “Even if it is enjoyable, it’s merely for business reasons, and nothing more. It takes an act that’s meant to be rather intimate and almost trivializes it in a way.”   
  
“Intimate?”   
  
“Typically doing something like that is limited to the one you are married to,” England said, “for the people who are not like us, at least.”  
  
“You aren’t married to that officer though,” America told him.  
  
“Yes, I’m very aware of that, thank you,” England muttered, then shook his head. “It’s not about having fun, really. Or enjoying it. It’s about treaties and business.”   
  
“You don’t enjoy doing it, England?”   
  
England looked further awkward still. America’s stomach quivered again.   
  
“I do,” he said at last, “but not for the reasons you may think.”  
  
America frowned.   
  
England cleared his throat once again, a continuous mantra of throat clearing. He passed a hand through America’s hair and as he went to drop it back down to his side, America seized it in his small hands, keeping it close.   
  
“It’s not something you need to worry over, America,” England told him.  
  
“Okay,” America murmured, staring at their hands.   
  
“After so many years, it’s hardly intimate anymore,” England said, mostly to himself, as if forgetting America was there. He was staring off at the sky, expression vague.   
  
America frowned at him.   
  
“There are nicer ways to show you care for someone. Things that I don’t do with anyone, really. Those are better, more sincere, than something that’s become nothing more than business.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“See, even now we’re holding hands,” England told him gently, lifting their joined hands and smiling a bit awkwardly down at the boy.   
  
America’s smile returned full-force, beaming up at England, the corners of his eyes crinkling in his pleasure. “Yes!”   
  
“Hm.”   
  
“Well, I guess if I only do it with England, it’ll be fine,” America mused, ignoring the way that England sputtered and pulled his hands away from the young boy. America peered up at him, thoughtfully. “Right?”   
  
“I don’t think it’ll ever come to that,” England muttered.   
  
“I guess not…” America frowned. “I don’t do things like that with anyone else, either.”   
  
“Things like what?”   
  
“This.”   
  
America’s hands cupped England’s flushed face, wiping away some of the sweat and staring up at him earnestly. England looked flustered a moment before his expression softened in a fond smile. A smile always looked awkward on England’s face, America thought, but in a good way. He liked seeing England’s smile more than anything. One hand drifted down, the fingers pushing against England’s lips curiously, feeling the smile.   
  
England chuckled. “America…”   
  
“This is nicer… than something like that, right?” America asked.   
  
England raised one thick eyebrow.   
  
America frowned, eyebrows knitting together and he leaned up, pressing their foreheads together, in the way that England did when he tried to comfort America after a nightmare. England watched him, expression neutral but hinting at the smile still, as America brushed his nose over England’s.   
  
“This _is_ better,” America declared.   
  
England laughed again and the air brushed over America’s face. He scrunched up his nose, pouting slightly, and stared at England, willing him to agree.   
  
England’s eyes fell shut a moment and he rubbed his nose against America’s, face flushing again. America knew that his caretaker wasn’t one for affection, so for him, doing that now was more than enough for the colony. When England opened his eyes, America was beaming at him.   
  
“… It’s better,” England relented, his voice quiet, almost unsure.   
  
“It is,” America said, far more confidently.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was weird, to be in this situation finally. He’d spent years thinking he never would be, especially not with someone like this.   
  
The room’s window were open, rustling in a soft breeze that ruffled the thin white curtains. France was naked already, lying back in the bed and watching as America undressed, his fingers fumbling even as he tried to hide his nervousness.   
  
“No need to be afraid,” France offered.   
  
“I’m not,” America shot back, voice quiet but determined. He dropped the last of his clothing and moved towards the bed.   
  
He felt an awkwardness creep over him as France openly stared at him, eyes tracing his body, unscarred and undefined, his skin still soft from his childhood years. He shivered under the gaze, unused to this and unsure, though he would never wish to acknowledge the uncertainty bubbling in his chest now. He sank onto the mattress, and France seized his wrist, gently, pulling him over his older, scarred body. America planted his hands on either side of France’s face, staring down at him.  
  
“Am I correct in assuming this will be the first for you?” France asked, and looked amused and thrilled by the idea.   
  
America frowned and tried to sound as confident as he wished he felt. “And what of it?”   
  
France laughed, and one hand grazed hungrily down America’s chest, feeling the contours of his body and the way that America pressed against his hand, already biting back the small moan of pleasure at that. France’s expression was almost smug.   
  
His hand brushed over America’s hip, swirling his thumb along the cut of bone there. America stared at him.   
  
“He’ll be very unhappy, when he learns of this,” France said thoughtfully, eyes hooded.   
  
“Who?”  
  
“England,” France said evenly and almost laughed at the reaction.   
  
America reeled back, eyes wide and face flushing with anger at the mention of England. His fists clenched as he sat back, straddling France but looking as if he wanted to run away.   
  
“ _Don’t_ talk about him,” America hissed, voice shaking from anger.   
  
“His little rebel of a colony with one of his biggest annoyances,” France mused, hands grazing over America’s body, even as he glared. America almost wondered if France preferred the anger.   
  
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t care what he thinks,” America snarled. “It’s my treaty to make.”   
  
“Hmm,” France hummed, one hand curling between America’s thighs and squeezing, eliciting a small gasp of pleasure from the other, even as his face contorted with anger. “Would you like me to show you what England likes?”  
  
“Would you stop talking about him?”   
  
France smiled, smooth and low and sultry. America turned his face away, glaring at the wall.   
  
“I hate England. I don’t want to talk about him, especially not in bed.”   
  
“Hatred is so passionate,” France mused, thumb following the line of America’s spine, curling up and into his hair, pulling him down. “Show me some of that passion, boy.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It became a habit, a constant state:   
  
“So it seems we’re trade partners now.”  
  
“… Yeah.”   
  
“Well.”   
  
“… Well.”   
  
America needed a drink.  
  
“I’ll meet you upstairs.”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
It started and ended the same. The faces blurred together.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He figured it was just a sign that he really was a nation now, to do the things he was told he wouldn’t have to, when he was young. England had meant it when he’d told him that very soon it lost its intimacy. France, China, Ireland, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Morocco…   
  
They all blurred away. America wasn’t one to linger for affection—a true hero he was after all, he couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by others, right? —and soon it all blurred into the same act repeatedly, with different faces.   
  
Not that he didn’t enjoy it, of course. But it was tiresome to suppress his moral nature in these acts—he blamed the Puritans for this—and to just sit back and enjoy it.   
  
“Whatever happened to handshakes?” he asked himself one night before downing the rest of his drink and wandering upstairs to solidify another treaty.   
  
It would be better if he didn’t house some secret resentment for some of these nations and people. He figured it’d be a lot easier if he actually liked and cared for the person he had to sleep with. Like—  
  
He derailed his thoughts at once, focusing on the clink of ice in his glass instead.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Let’s just get this over with,” England muttered, pulling at the buttonholes of his military uniform.   
  
America frowned. “Don’t make it sound so terrible.”   
  
England stripped off his military jacket, hanging it gently and with great dignity over the back of a chair, smoothing it out for wrinkles. He moved slowly, decisively, the bandages wrapped around his torso tight and only stained in some spots with red. He caught America staring and gave him a withered look.  
  
“What?”   
  
“Is it fine to…?”   
  
“Don’t trail off, boy,” England said, snippy, as he smoothed his hands over the bandages, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine.”   
  
“Right,” America said with his own roll of the eyes.   
  
England walked towards him, his footsteps still deliberate as he progressed. America watched him, watched the way he stopped in front of him, staring past him with a thoughtful frown.   
  
“Do you need to redress them or something?”  
  
“I hardly think that’ll be necessary,” England said dryly, still not looking at him.   
  
“We can wait until you’re feeling better?” America offered.  
  
“As if you’re in better shape,” England muttered, fingers working at the buttons of America’s shirt, slowly stripping him down and revealing the recently healed battle scars scraping across his chest. America watched him with curious, hooded eyes. “It’s fine like this. It’s a ‘special relationship’, isn’t it? We might as well be done with it now, since it’ll be a while before either of us are better. Right?”   
  
“Right,” America agreed, and shrugged out of his shirt, trying not to let his stomach tremble when England’s fingers fluttered over his skin.   
  
They didn’t look at one another after that. America kept his eyes shut as England slowly pushed him against the mattress, his touch surprisingly gentle—though probably because of mindfulness over their wounds. America pressed his face into the pillow, bit it into his mouth to drown out the small moans as England draped over him, gripping his hips and pushing in and out with gentle precision.   
  
He almost said England’s name, and stopped himself just in time, to let it trail off into a shallow moan as England’s hands stroked him, in time with his thrusting. One hand trailed down his spine, fingers grazing over every vertebra, before resting on the small of his back as an anchor. He moved steadily against America, and the younger nation bit his tongue. It was an act with no intimacy, no matter how much America focused on how it was _England_ above and in him. It was just another treaty, another night with things left unsaid.   
  
He wondered what England’s face looked like in that moment, and wondered if his face was anything like America’s expression.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He was outside England’s house on his boss’ orders.   
  
“Okay,” he told himself, standing up a bit straighter. “Time to be humble and all that. I can do that, right? Yeah.”   
  
He nodded to himself and started walking up the path towards England’s front door. He fumbled in his pocket for the notecards his boss wrote out for him to remember what to say and do. He scanned over them, frowning and brow furrowing.   
  
“I can’t do this,” he decided, stuffing the cards back into his pocket. “I sound too sappy.”   
  
He sighed.   
  
“I mean, I know I’ve taken him and everybody for granted. He’s one of the most important allies, right? So like… I should treat him better. ‘Special relationship’ or whatever…”   
  
He pulled the cards back out again. Frowned more.   
  
He read: “And I know I’ve used you in the past, expected you to support me but barely doing so in return. In the future, I want us to be more equal, to have a relationship as equals.”   
  
He paused, then laughed.  
  
“Now, just say that in front of him and we’re all set.”   
  
He grabbed the door handle and went inside.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America crashed through the door loudly. England looked up, first in shock and worry, quickly dissolving away when he recognized the nation marching his way over to the elder nation’s desk and slamming his fists against the table.  
  
“England!” he said, rather dramatically.  
  
England was substantially unimpressed and regarded America with practiced nonchalance and coolness. “Yes, what now?”   
  
“I know that… in the past I’ve…”  
  
“What are you going on about now?” England muttered and rolled his eyes. growing impatient at America’s hesitancy and frustrated at the sentences that continually trailed off.   
  
America stared at him, trying to remember the words on his note cards. England stared right back, looking bemused despite it all.   
  
“UGH, here,” America said and thrust the note cards into England’s palm.   
  
England stared at them. Then read them. Then gave him another bemused expression.   
  
“This isn’t your handwriting.”   
  
“Yeah, well…”   
  
England began reading the note cards: “I’ve treated you like a lesser nation when we should be working as equals, and I do appreciate all the help you’ve given me in the past and continue to do so, despite everything.” He looked up at him, and smirked. “Come to grovel, I see.”   
  
“Would you shut up?”   
  
England continued: “I want just to be equals, to be a full partnership.”   
  
America felt his face going red, and he told himself it was from anger at England’s insensitivity to his baring of the soul. England kept reading the other cards aloud, squirming away from America when he went to swipe the cards from him. He read through them all—the cards about their joint history and culture, the cards about their special relationship, the cards about their support for one another, the cards about America’s promise to be more open with England, and the one he hated for England to read the most, the one where he apologized for not being as good of an ally as he could have been.  
  
Once he was done, England was beaming smugly.   
  
America grumbled.  
  
“It’s amusing you had to write it all down.”  
  
America swiped the cards, finally, from England’s hand and stuffed them back into his pocket. “Yeah, well.”   
  
England laughed, and it sounded almost awkward.   
  
America, oblivious, muttered to himself, “It’s not like I didn’t mean any of that, though. Ya know. Boss says I need to rebuild my relationship with you.”   
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Yeah, so…”  
  
England definitely looked uncomfortable now, no longer smirking and looking away from America. He watched the wall, crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing for a long moment, face vaguely pink.   
  
America swallowed the lump in his throat.   
  
“Well,” England said but then didn’t say anything more.   
  
“Well what?”  
  
“Okay, then.”   
  
“Okay?”  
  
“That’s what I said, you daft boy,” England muttered, face red now.   
  
America blinked once, and then grinned, feeling sheepish. “Okay.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Stop looking at me like that,” England muttered, face red, as America moved against him.   
  
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” America shot back, voice breathless as England’s hands pressed over his feverish skin.   
  
England moved against him, arched, hands passing over him. America shifted into his touch, breathing coming out shallower than before, eyes hooded as he stared at England and refused to look away. This time, England met his gaze. Their eyes locked, almost hesitant.   
  
America grabbed England’s hands as their thrusts became more frenzied, wrapped his fingers around England’s and gripped. Their eyes didn’t stray from one another.  
  
England stared at him. America offered him a small smile, and blinked his eyes when sweat rolled into his vision.   
  
England sighed, breathed out a small curse that could have been an insult but was too soft to be taken in anger. America arched again, shifted his legs and pressed against England, breathing through his nose and lips fluttering over his mouth, earnestly taking his kisses and giving back his own.   
  
When they finished, there was a quiet silence as the two of them regained control of their breathing. They looked at one another again, and this time England was the one to offer the wobbly, lopsided smile—small, hesitant, but thankful.   
  
America shifted his head, pressed his forehead against England’s a moment so that their noses bumped but it became too intimate for him, too much, and he had to pull away.   
  
One of England’s hand passed through America’s hair, and it was enough.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- France aided the American colonies during the revolution.   
  
\- I know there are probably more people/countries, alliance wise, that America could have listed but I was lazy and only listed the first few that popped into my head. And didn’t go into detail with them because half of those would be OCs, hurray.   
  
\- I hate linking to wiki, but [relations between England and the US](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom%E2%80%93United_States_relations#Present_status)   
  
\- [Speficially the Special Relationship](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Relationship)   
  
\- Though going by this logic, probably America and England would have slept together before WWII, but I thought the setting was good for the awkwardness, so forgive me the potential historical inaccuracies.   
  
\- These are all old articles, but show Obama’s pledges regarding the “special relationship”: [one,](http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/may/27/barackobama.uselections2008) [two](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/world_news_america/7922428.stm), and [three.](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/obama-reaffirms-special-relationship-with-uk-1636588.html)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Loose Ends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/695842) by [stardropdream (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream)




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